


Teardrops Start

by CanterburyTales



Series: After the Fall [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Post-Reichenbach, Pre-The Empty Hearse, pre-Many Happy Returns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-28
Updated: 2013-12-28
Packaged: 2018-01-06 05:34:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1103013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanterburyTales/pseuds/CanterburyTales
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every month Mycroft pays a visit to Mrs Hudson, takes tea and pays the rent for Sherlock's old flat, whether Mrs Hudson approves or not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Teardrops Start

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from the Elvis Costello song, "Watching the Detectives."

Mrs Hudson stood at the bottom of the stairs and listened. It was quiet. It was always quiet now, except for the creaks and groans as the old house settled around her. 

She'd been glad when John had gone, a few months after It happened. She'd told him that when he carried out the last box and stopped, a look of concern on his face. "No good living with a ghost," she had said. 

She scurried out of the hall and into the warmth of her flat. John still came to visit, every week. She was very lucky really. Inspector Lestrade dropped in every so often, and that Sergeant of his had been in a few times. Sally, that was it. The one that reminded her of Beatrice's Maggie, who went to work in the City, started wearing trouser suits all the time and forgot how to smile. And the other one came a few times, though he stopped coming after John had words with him. All those questions about Sherlock! It wasn't decent.

And Molly came, asking about her hip. And Mycroft of course. Every month, regular as clockwork to collect the rent. She'd told him not to bother but he had brushed her aside. A very determined man, Mycroft Holmes.

He shouldn't still be paying the rent. It wasn't healthy. She'd hinted a few times but he had ignored her completely. In desperation she had ended up asking John help her talk to him.

"I can't keep the flat empty any longer, what with all the people looking for somewhere to live, " she'd said. "This bedroom tax they're talking about too - place like this should be lived in."

Mycroft simply looked at her as if she was a puzzle to solve. So like his brother sometimes. "If your conscience is bothering you, I'd be delighted to do something to help with the accomodation problem in the city. Will that be sufficient?" 

"I don't like it being empty," she'd insisted. "It's not right." 

Mycroft had paused and taken an unnecessary sip of tea. "I understand that it might be difficult for you. If you want to move elsewhere..."

She'd been furious. "I'm not going anywhere. This is my home!" 

"England would fall." She'd almost forgotten John was there, his silent reassurance like a wall at her back. He sat, his hand held sideways to his lips so the smile visible on either side of it looked like it was escaping. Their eyes met, the same memory flashing between them and then she knew John would be all right. She stopped worrying about him that day. She still worried a little about Mycroft.

The timer went and she stooped to take the scones out of the oven. Yes, she worried about Mycroft. Holding onto his brother's rooms, insisting that nothing be removed (well, except for the experiments and bits of dead bodies, but John and Molly saw to that). He was living in the past. It was difficult but everyone else was slowly moving on. She was moving on, seeing that nice star-gazing man from the booth near Pall Mall. But Mycroft seemed unchanging, untouchable. That was why she baked for him. It was the only way she could think of to touch the hunger in his eyes. (Poor Betty had been the same. Always in control but put on two stone after Ken died.) 

Not that he wasn't cheeky with it. She'd never forget John coming in last week with the paper and a sly grin. There it was, in the centre pages, the launch of the Hudson Housing Trust. She'd bristled indignantly while John's grin grew wider. "Well of all the nerve!" She'd threatened to give Mycroft a piece of her mind and John had actually laughed out loud. It was good to hear it. Good to know he was writing his bloggy thing again. 

There was the bell. She put the scones on the table with the jam and flicked the kettle on. Then she went out to the door. Mycroft had refused to accept a key. "This isn't my home," he said. "It's yours." John had shrugged when she had told him and said Mycroft could probably get in if he wanted to anyway. He never did though. 

"Well, here we are." She took his coat, and preceded him into her room. He sniffed appreciatively. "Scones, fresh from the oven."

He sat, and a self-deprecating smile dawned on his face. "You really shouldn't have, Mrs Hudson. There's rather too much of me as there is."  

"Nonsense. Now sit down and tuck in. Much better warm." She poured his tea, then settled herself down to join him. He didn't really eat like Betty after Ken had died. It was more like that fashion model who had rented the place a few years back. Like he was afraid if he started eating he's never stop.

"So what's all this about?" she asked as she took out the paper, folded to the Hudson Trust page. He turned a face of conspicuous innocence to her. "Is this an endeavour of yours, Mrs Hudson?" She pursed her lips and shook her head at him. Unperturbed, he took a bite of scone and closed his eyes with obvious pleasure as he chewed it.

They chatted about the weather ("bit nippy today"), the traffic and the gay marriage bill (she: "Won't it be wonderful if it passes?", he: "Hmmmm"). Then silence fell and she gathered up her courage. 

"Why are you keeping Sherlock's flat?" 

He pondered the question for a moment and shrugged his shoulders. "Call it a foolish whim of a man with more money than sense."

"It'll be two years soon. Don't you think maybe it's time to stop?" She put her hand across the table and touched his.

"I appreciate the concern," and Mycroft patted the hand placed on his, "but I assure you, it is not mere sentiment. I do have my reasons."

"You miss him."

The hand patting stopped. "Yes," he said quietly. "Yes, I do."

It was her own fault dwelling on the past like this. She suddenly felt the loss all over again and a tear ran from the corner of her eye. As if the first had somehow given her sorrow permission, one followed and then another. Mycroft took his hand away and reached into his pocket for a handkerchief but he had barely got it out when she was dashing the drops away with her hands, wiping the emotion away with stiff, impatient fingers. She looked across at him, mouth twisted in an attempt to get control. The words rushed out regardless. "Look at me, crying in front of you. He was your brother. I was only his landlady. But I get so angry sometimes."

"Dear lady, why?" 

"It's not right for the young to die before the old," and Mrs Hudson took a calming sip of tear. "He was so clever and so young and he's gone. I'm old and useless and still hanging on."

Mycroft slowly put the hand with the handkerchief out and placed it on hers. "I assure you, Sherlock didn't think that. You were much more than a landlady to him." He looked down at their joined hands. "You made him happier and took better care of him than I was able to." A faint smile ghosted across his face. "You know what he would say if he were here. 'Do stop talking such rubbish.'"

Mrs Hudson looked pained and amused all at once. "He probably would. Such a rude boy. But I loved him. I wish he had realised it. I wish he had talked to us before..."

Mycroft's voice rang clear in the room. "No. He knew. You must not blame yourself. You were not responsible for what happened. None of his friends were." His voice dropped a little. "If you need to blame someone for the pain you and his other friends feel, blame me." He smiled an honest smile as she shook her head. "It's my job as his brother after all."


End file.
